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INVASION OF DREAMS ( 1)

26.05.2021
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MİTHRA ÇİYAYÎ

Today I met you in the same dream, while we were wandering around the streets of Amed, we came to eye on the corner. I didn’t know if you were at seven or seventy, at first glance you were taking your head out like a stray mine and disappearing. I don’t know where you fell like a snowball into my dream. While I was in the Amed prison with my own past, you suddenly stretched your head. At the point you were, your head looked like a Delluce. I was walking slowly from the bus station to Bağlar district in order to knead my dreams with my past and get rid of the childish cries and face the Amed dungeon once more. On the first day I was evacuated, I was walking away from the deep but not wanting to show my excitement, but with a slightly fearful, slightly excited and mystical walk, I was walking towards the Amed dungeon between the houses that used to be a field and now decorated with shanty houses. My dreams and fear were also very intense. I was both scared and walking, but my feet were tangled so that I would hear the captive screams at any moment.

When I said dungeon, captivity, I knew that no prison, no torture could be compared to the Amed dungeon. Sometimes when I listened to people, I wanted to laugh at them and underestimated their torture. Then I would get angry with myself and make a curse on my selfish side. Not every person can live the same life. Although the life cycle is often similar, every story is unique. Every story only affects you and your environment, then, after yes, as everyone knows, you become a part of social events.

Every eye sees separately and every heart lives its love separately. What and how I lived in the life cycle. I do not know how I have endured so much pain, tens of thousands of people have also experienced similar pains with me, in different time periods, in different areas. How long have I experienced my own pain with everyone’s pain because we cannot say everyone’s pain to itself? Sometimes it looks like a heartbreak, sometimes it’s an electric shock. The stronger you can be in the time frames that mop your life, the stronger you are, but sometimes you don’t have the luxury to say that. You just want to sleep while hunger, thirst and scars of torture leave you breathless. If nightmares haven’t filled you while you sleep, you will fall into a deep sleep of your dreams. Though your gasps may be gasping, a moment of plunge gives you a few more hours of staying power.

In a few seconds, you forget the pain, hunger and thirst. When a groan, a cry pulls you into the Diyarbakır dungeon nightmare, you suffer deep grief. Your dried throat will stop in revolt every time you pull it inside. Even if the smell coming from your throat upset your stomach, you cannot vomit. Even if you want to vomit, you cannot vomit. When your intestines are infested by worms, your stomach is sticking to your back. Every burp only torments you. There is no escape, no dying, and an eternal tormented life that constantly gnaws your brain. You are astonished by realizing that you are living in astonishment, not yet dead, while torture, pain and nightmares are intertwined.

You kid; While you are trying to hide your pain in the nook of the brain, the moment the pain captures your brain like a cancer, knock on the door of your dreams if you are alone and writhing between four walls. Get out of that time zone from that moment. Dreams of courtship to the eagle’s nest. The free land of mountains that no one can reach. Let nothing interrupt your dreams. Keep your hand vigilant at all times, even when they torture you, even when you scream with pain. Do not leave your stash empty, so that the eagle can reach their nests.

My life and my dreams were just mine. Even though I share some of my experiences, most of them are special to me, and each of them stands guard in a corner of my mind. When the time came, he would keep his watch and wait for my weak memory to fly away and blend into the clouds. In these scenes from many forgotten past lives, both me and my opposite, they longed for freedom as much as my country.

Every time I slept, each one of them would push the doors of my mind from a separate place and decorate my dreams. While some decorations relaxed and rested me, others enveloped me like a nightmare. Just like an octopus clinging to my head and squeezing its arms, my brain suffocated me by being without oxygen.

When I knew about my illness, my psychological illness, as much as possible every day before going to bed, I would put myself in therapy and try to think good things and sleep that way. There were days when I succeeded, but mostly Amed dungeon demons would catch me in the sweetest part of my sleep and continue their torture until I woke up.

At that moment I was looking up. As the excitement strangled me, I encountered your head.

I am not in a position to deal with anyone today. It is unfortunate that I have to share my dream with you. I want to escape from the clouds and burn in Diyarbakır’s warmth of hell. While dozens of our comrades wanted to live the moment when they passed away by being scorched in the heat of hell, your unfortunate head disrupted my concentration. You seem and disappear, mysteriously, like a Kurdish mummy that has escaped from the invasion of historical artifacts. It looks like you want to have an unfortunate day like me today. It is certain that you will not be very happy with this. Besides, my dreams are not those that you know so dreamy. Especially today, I have no business with clouds or stars. Today is my somewhat melancholic hangout day. In fact, melancholy would be a little too exaggerated. This is neither a melancholic hangout nor a complete dream world. It should not be a dream to relive the experiences or to dive into memories. I am so caught in my tongue because I always obsessed with dreams. Let’s just say that I would imprison you alone on that street like babies left in the mosque courtyard, right? Come on, whatever comes your way …

Look man, it would be a lie if I said I was not afraid of you at first sight. After all, I was wandering the streets longing for thirty years. My head was a little more cozy for you. I look at my country with the remnants of the unknown and what has been told in addition to the longing accumulated for many years. When you do not come, someone always comes on leave and explains the desire to see the country that he established in his own world and never found again, adding the frustration of not being able to see. It’s like an African country he’s talking about, or a town lost in the Brazilian jungle. Even though you know this, you are impressed by what that half-faced person says. And again, you know that one could not find the dreams, dreams and friends left in the country for tomorrow. Again, you know that many things have changed in your country, town and village until that thought. Although you know all of these in theory, you hear the curiosity, excitement and deep fear that a tourist feels for a foreign country on your first trip to your home country. Here, add the Diyarbakır dungeon to this emotional intensity.

For the first time, I was afraid of my own country’s children from my own country. I don’t know the reason for my fear. Was it your big black eyes, or was it your face floating in dirt and rust? However, I longed for the dusty dirt roads of Viransehir and my own childhood games. I would just go one day in wild hands away from tens of thousands of kilometers, wander the dusty and soiled streets of Viransehir and watch the children running through the streets of Xincik moonlight. You know, if childhood means play, it was dust soil and muddy houses for us. Regardless, I’m sure we have more fun than rich kids. I do not know how to tell you this; but I could never find the satisfaction of missing the dry state of that Nané Tiren from home and eating it on the street.

Didn’t we all grow up in dust when we were little, why should I be afraid of your covered face? Could I have thought of you as a somewhat distinct freak creature in the dark ages when we were in that age as the ages passed? So did my need to stay away from the country for a long time subconsciously define a new Kurdish identity? If you could know what the human brain is capable of, you wouldn’t perceive what I said as crazy. If you only knew what being abroad gains people. Let’s not mention the losses. Most people have nothing left. In the rest, a divided heart.

Whatever wisdom, I immediately realized that he didn’t have a house. I do not know how I understood and why I came to such an opinion. As a matter of fact, it was the first time I realized that I was so wandering. Now, we will wander the streets in this heat of Amed, two wanderers back and forth. Until I get to the corner where you stretch your head out, if there is no dust around. To be dust out of nowhere. Seems like naughty kids first principle.

The revolution and the love for Kurdistan, which we were kept as children like you, did not give us the opportunity to be wandering. Our every moment was full. Maybe if we sum up all the work we’ve done in a few years, it won’t satisfy our excitement of a few days of gaming. But we had grown so much and we believed we were doing a lot. I don’t know how much we did, but I can tell you that the longing and beauty of those days was only equivalent to the excitement and happiness we felt while playing our favorite game as a child. For some reason, it was those games that connected us to life, and a little honored within human beings.

Maybe we weren’t like our revolutionary brothers, but we were certainly much happier than them. I’m telling you why I squeezed these into my dreams, even if you wouldn’t even hear it. You could laugh a handful of people and say it is from old age, but now I feel at your age and just as naughty as you. I can say that the slow steps that dragged them to the Amed prison were replaced by more lively and more exciting steps.

It seems that we will be with you for a longer time and you will be the symbol of my childhood. Maybe you will take out the Revolutionary children of Viransehir, which I have hidden inside me for years, and play games. You tell us about Amed’s children as I walk around my old plays. You have no chance anymore.

I did not let you down, little general. You have been the guest of my dream. I said you little general, but what name do you like. If there is no little general Haval or Haval general, my little general .. I don’t know what name you like, it would be better if I call you Little General, in the words of Ape Musa, who knocks on my main dream. After all, you conjured up little revolutionary children who looked a bit like us in my old childhood dream. Children holding the street heads, running when they see police or soldiers and inform their revolutionary brothers. Even if it is in my dreams after you get this title, it does not change this fact if you become a honeyist or another drug addict. Even if the memory of Ape Musa is to the sake of you, your path will still meet our childhood dream, and you will not be able to escape from the responsibility that history puts on you, but our dreams.

Now we can see eye to eye, even from afar. Your hazel eyes in your long black eyelashes flash like a sharp spark in the dark. I guess you are depriving us of a momentary spark after closing each lash. But the spark in his eyes still gives us the glimpse of the silvery lives in the walls of Amed.

The mystery within you makes me hopeful when I go. It always reminds me of the dream of the 35th ward of Diyarbakır Prison No. There, too, our dreams always turned into a nightmare with the cursing of a guard or the tormented scream of a prisoner. There was a mystery on your face in every child like us who fell into an early lecture. The spark in our eyes was just like yours. It would appear and disappear. Yet despite all our innocence, despite all our despair, the enemy, whatever wisdom, was afraid of us. We could not make sense that those who might drown us in a spoonful of water were afraid of us. How many times have we witnessed that fear. Especially the death fast of our heroic brothers and their slogans in court had devastated them. For us, they were a glimmer of hope. Our ash-turned face and dreams were unfolded like the first flower of spring. A little coy and also (ji) fragile.

Still, your mood is different. The hope in you has risen by resisting many northeastern points. You’re pretty much better than us, your hopes are out and it’s clear from your sweet shy smile, you’re more confident. And I hope you gave your back to your friends. Not on walls like we do. Our back, right, left, even inside and outside were walls. The strongest resisting and never delivering hope was our Keko and the prison walls that we shattered every day in the cold and hot weather at thirty degrees. Dumb deaf and blind walls.

Now I’m a little closer to you. The fantastic relationship between us greets a little more reality. It is more like the nascent sun, which opens the horizon of man, rather than a piece of moon trying to slip out of the clouds. He might not believe it, but some people’s hearts are at the warmth of the morning sun. You know, in the morning dew falls on the ground and the air gets a little cooler. At that moment, you will feel the sweet warmth of the rising sun all over your body. Here I always compare that warmth in the hearts of children with the sun that gives the good news of that new day and the new day. Therefore, when we went to Yazidi villages in Viransehir as a child, I used to attribute the warmth in the hearts of Yazidi Kurds to their worship against the sun in the morning. I would also attribute such resistance of the Kurds to the sun for so many years. Now, I saw the innocent sincerity in your gaze of Yazidi Kurd.

I hadn’t approached you yet and noticed the bag you were hiding behind you. Only the blackness of his teeth caught my attention. As I approached the street slowly, you had removed half of the body. There was a serious distance between us and it was empty on the street.

Who were you waiting for? Did you have friends I didn’t know if you were down, if you were a demon or part of an angel. Still, from afar, I felt you close to myself. I did not know if you were one of the Shoreshing children like us or the child of a patriot who was attracted to Bali. But a policeman or a soldier; The first time I saw that there was no Kurdish child sold without a room. No matter what you were, you were still one of us and you painted our emotional side on your face. I don’t know if that painting comes from the mystery of your father or mother, but I felt even in the deepest corner of my heart that the sadness and mystery in that painting had come from the mysterious massacres of the history of Kurdistan.

The first stone that came to my mind was when I wondered what’s in the bag you hid behind. At that moment, I wondered if the wisdom is Cudi’s white stones or Karacadağ’s black stones. My curiosity has not gone yet. As a person who was exiled in your own country and immigrated in your own country, I sensed that there was a stance against this system; but I also wondered what kind of stance he was taking. Instead of this curiosity that will accelerate me, my steps slowed down even more.

The reason was the black bag in your hand that you kept behind you all the time. God give it, you always held the bag tight when I saw you.

If your face was itchy at that moment, if the mosquito bit your face and you put your hand with the bag on your face, all my dreams would be shattered. It would dissipate my dreams that would blow my mind that you were a street kid. In fact, it would be more correct if I say “our orphans who have been homeless by the state”, not street children. Or if I say ‘our children murdered by the system’. Neither of them will be able to get away with your statement of a street boy who is stuck on the street and has no home to put his head, but it will ease my conscience. Here I confess to you, which is my relapsing senile brain state.

My little general, your current situation will not spoil my dreams. Whatever you are, I will still put you in the captainhouse of my dreamboat that I put in my dreams. Maybe being a honeymooner or a little further a thief won’t change my dream reality. While doing this, I will look into your eyes, if you have friends, I will look into their eyes, and I will congratulate you on this holy Newroz with you no matter what. Now let’s open the dream window together and travel to the future by commemorating yesterday. Even if we can’t achieve both, let’s live today…

I nearly got to approach him. I came close to you two hundred, two hundred and fifty meters. You continue your prank. Let’s see it, you’re in the mood. I wouldn’t have noticed the pouch you tied around your neck, if your wheat skin didn’t shine with the sharp lights of the occasional sun. In the past, we used to wear sushi from time to time. To gain a bit of an intellectual student identity. I used to wear it from time to time, just as I do not like him wearing shalwar. These two and MEKAP shoes would make us full “demand”, as the people say. Mekap shoes is a symbol of our later banned in Turkey. Don’t let Mekap shoes confuse you, they are the sports shoes we know, I think they were chosen because they were both cheap and solid. Nevertheless, if they say what the most important symbol of that period is, I would say Mekap shoes without thinking. We of the Apoists, we did not say we were Apoists, we called ourselves the Kurdistan Revolutionaries. We liked the Kurdistan Revolutionaries, another name of the student, more. We, the students, were the rebels who had revolted against the state before eighty years. The people both loved and ignored us. If there was no struggle between Hilvan and Siverek, nobody would pay attention if we did not fight with the police in front of the public. What a beauty, even if the public did not believe it, they took care of us. They viewed it more or less as their own children, and a bit as childish youth enthusiasm. Still, they were able to bring us many problems they could not solve. I can also say that we have solved many of those problems better than the state. I don’t know whether the people or the renegade we grew up too early, but with the first whistle of September 12, the people turned their back on us. I will understand if there was pressure for months like that, but from the first days of September 12, we started dying like a fish out of the water. We were walking the streets of Viranşehir from morning till night. The people were back and the children of the rebellion were hungry and exposed. Despite everything, I do not know if we were lucky with you, but I know that you have become the hope of a people of forty million people. The burden on your shoulder is too heavy to compare with ours.

Fortunately, there is not much distance between us. I didn’t think to change my path until the last moment. Although I was not afraid of you, I could not understand my feet getting heavy. At that moment, many things did not cross my mind. Let me honestly share them with you. At that moment I was afraid of myself. I was afraid of my own reality, of my own responsibilities and of losing my dream to life in real life and utopia, that is my sweet utopia.

Over the years, we have struggled with dozens of my comrades to offer a good future for children like you. We hurt and hurt for the sake of it, and we all paid dues we didn’t deserve. And now, after thirty years, children like you have increased a lot compared to that period and you are looking at me with your black eyes as the added value of this increase. As I saw you, the reality of my own children came before me in all its nakedness. And you lovable boy from the ground up, you are staring at me as my reality that I dangle into the deepest well of my subconscious.

My heart is beating like a bird’s heart with a head off, silent and hopeless. However, I have never lived without hope. I believed that one day children would run freely in these lands. I dreamed of my children going to the movies, watching theater, playing in school sketches and running home to laugh. When I saw you like that, my heart darkened for a moment and despair embraced my heart. But whatever happened, the dream of the past comes to mind. To tell you more precisely, what Ape Musa saw is what I dreamed about. “He writes, writes, writes about the” unsolved “murder in Batman, where a few children run around every corner on every street in Amed and put up the newspapers in their hands and shout. The fact that those children were selling Gündem newspaper as if shouting slogans came to my mind like a movie screen. And the cops chasing them at that moment…

Kicking and beating the kids as the kids they caught take their newspapers; The more you can see hope and despair in the same frame at the same time, the more I’ve seen now. Just as the shouting of those children, their being beaten, and their resurrection of newspapers the next day tears up our darkness; I want you to shatter our miserable dark clouds in distant lands. I don’t know why I had such an expectation. I don’t know why I carry the shadows of despair on me, even if in a short time.

As you can see, the little generals of Ape Musa and their screams quickly dissipated this moment of despair. Now I can look at you a little more kind and innocent. You know, any doubt kills all innocence. Ape Musa came to my rescue again. Although you cannot change your reality with me; but it prevents us from moving away from each other.

There is something else I want to confess to you, maybe one day you can tell your children or younger siblings. Now everything is better than our time. I don’t know if we have increased, they have decreased or we have become more conscious. In the past, we used to deal with the problems of the neighborhood, now we run the big city municipalities. We were very few in our period, now I see we are millions. Did the semester change? I will tell you whether we should leave it to you, but I don’t know if he’s gone to school yet.

Now there are eighty, one hundred meters between us, my feet seem a little more alive. Now you are out of the street. Thinking that you are weak and short, and that the gasoline is fading with hunger, the thought of coming closer to you and taking you to a restaurant at first arises. It’s as if if I fed you, I would feed all the street kids of Kurdistan. Perhaps your hunger is the first thing that comes to my mind to relieve my own conscience. Otherwise, when you come out of the corner all the way, I notice that there are no shoes on your feet.

When I say shoes, for some reason I think of revolutionaries and journalists. Both of them have holes in their shoes. There are also guerrillas, you know your current brothers. Maybe in the future, they will raise their hopes and become the pure heroes of their dreams. Their shoes, too, are always torn. In winter, their feet freeze, and in summer they crumble in stones, on the spikes of rocks. Before they reach martyrdom, they offer their blood to the lands of this country.

The revolutionaries who embellished my dreams also hungry, but hunger did not affect them because their dreams were bigger than their stomachs.

Their hearts gathered all the anonymous longings, their hopes smelled like fresh roses, and their dreams embraced all the oceans to change the world.

I don’t know how much your dreams coincide with me. The love for you has grown a little more in me. Not mercy but love! I hope it doesn’t turn into mercy the closer we get to you. If it turns to mercy, I will leave my captive country as a prisoner again. If love develops, I will breathe a breath of that captivity and let this breath of hope and dreams come true in that distant country I go to. I have children there who share my hopes and dreams. I will tell them that Ape Musa’s little generals grew up and became freedom fighters. I will also take away your dreams and your trust in your brothers.

There’s a bag behind you and it reminds me of the honeymoon boys I met in the metropolis. As the blackness of his teeth proves this. Still, I would like to have something else in the bag behind you.

I was just in a sub-district of yours. I saw a group of children there. All of them had stones in their hands. They were all children, from seven to seventy. These children were attacking the police with anger against the panzers, against the bullets, and stoning them. The brothers of those children had Molotov cocktails. They were all happy and they all knew what they were doing. But most of all I was amazed by the little girls throwing stones. Some were so small that their stones did not exceed a few meters. They were running paw paws, sometimes looking scared at the panzers, but still throwing their stones and saying ‘Ha’. Here they reminded me of ants. Behold, in Urfa, Hz. Ants carrying water as Ibrahim was thrown into the fire. Was it possible for those ants to put out the fire? It was not possible, but they stubbornly carried water to the fire. At that time, they had the hope of the Kurd. After that date, the Kurds carried their hopes with their hearts.

Black-eyed boy, I hope you are one of those little generals throwing stones. Otherwise, I will alternate between a little more hope and pessimism. Or was it because you thought I was a plainclothes police officer for hiding in the first corner? Fear and anxiety were not in your eyes. It was more of an innocent and curious look. Then you didn’t think I was a police officer, but you still wanted to be sure …

The distance between us is getting shorter and shorter. Now I see her sun-burnt blond hair and the small slit on her head, which is obviously a stone wound on the left. Even if your glaze hair is rusty, it keeps its shine. Maybe you like to take care of yourself, kid. From whom did you learn to be clean? Is it from your father who wears patchy trousers, or is it from the heart of your mother who kisses and smells you every morning? I don’t know, but you are clean boy. The light in his heart hits his face, his hair grinning from his face. Obviously, you come from a very poor family, otherwise your mother would definitely wear a gold piece of gold in that silver hair. Let’s assume you have grown a little bit. Your mother pierced her ear while telling you Kurdish tales. You listened to Kurdish tales every night with your ear. Your father kept telling you stories even when your eyes were closed while you were stubbornly resisting sleep. A hole in an ear but no earring, boy. However, what would be good with that silvery hair!

How many times a day your mother looks into her diamond eyes and smells her silver hair. How many times a day does he sacrifice his delicate body to you?

Yes boy, your head is split, your face is covered with blood and you are running into the revolution with a stone in my hand. Hundreds of your friends are currently listening to their teachers in their schools as you run into revolution. Either you fell in love with the revolution like your big brothers. I understand that too, and the more I look at your face, the more I go on a journey into my own past. Walk by my side and be a witness to my dreams. If you take the trouble to open your mouth, tell me about your dreams. Your dreams are dreams of the future. My dreams are blended with the past. Look, if you have beautiful dreams in one pocket, nightmares in the other pocket. For thirty years I could not get rid of those nightmares. But if I share your dreams, there will be no room for nightmares in my pocket. If I spend my Hell nightmares, I cannot tell you about the nightmares I had. As long as my country is not free, the colonists always pollute the brains of my immaculate children with new nightmares. I will tell about my nightmares, you will take lessons and offer free dreams to the children of tomorrow …

TO BE CONTINUED…

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